Chapter Text
Your sister is dead.
Every word tore at her and laid her soul bare. She remembered that look of despair on Hans' face as he'd called out to her, shouting words that didn't matter on their own but when stringed together carried an unsurpassed potency. Your sister is dead.
Elsa stood on a balcony of her ice palace, staring out at the ink-coloured sky and ignoring the wind which screamed of cold she could not feel on her skin. Her impassive face reflected a heart of stone, unyielding, unmoved by insignificant feelings, because feelings had played an instrumental role in Anna's death; that realisation helped her do what she had never managed to before.
The people of Arendelle will never accept an unpredictable murderer as Queen.
Hans's voice had taken on the trappings of grief as he'd told her to run. In the light of the revelation, guilt and grief had overwhelmed all rationality, and she had run, faster than she had ever done so in her life. Later, as she'd paced along the corridors of ice, she had berated herself for being a coward, and was that foreign prince even telling the truth?
Her lips compressed very slightly as the tendril of doubt coiled about her and forced her down a darker line of thought that she could not –
Of course he was telling the truth. She had dealt the blow herself.
Cold blue eyes surveyed a landscape of unyielding trees and endless snow. They blinked and then suddenly there was a flicker of – something. But it disappeared.
Your sister is dead.
Your sister is dead.
The pale hands clenched slowly into fists.
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Unsure of what to expect, Hans unlocked and pushed open the door. A wave of chill air swept over him and the first thing he saw was a grey mass of ice in front of the dead fireplace. Sword drawn, he cautiously approached, trying to suppress that growing feeling of anticipation in his heart. The Snow Queen's other creations had taken on a life of their own – it would be incredibly stupid of him to let his guard down now.
He soon realised that the ice resembled the figure of a person, one who, perhaps at the time of its demise, had collapsed in front of the fireplace as it attempted to support itself and hobble to – the window?
A smirk curled his lips as the implications became clear. Oh, Anna, you noble fool.
Hans sheathed his sword and strode over to the fireplace. Once there was a healthy fire going, he strode out of the room, locking the door behind him.
The armoury would have tools more suitable than a sword for breaking ice into smaller pieces – it wouldn't do to have people asking why Anna had collapsed in such a position if she had supposedly died in his arms.
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What remained of Anna's body was given a burial as best as it could.
When asked why it was in pieces, Hans plastered on a look of bewildered sorrow and said, "I don't know. I found her like this." His voice trembled a little, but he continued, "Perhaps when the Snow Queen ended the winter, the magic . . . destroyed her."
Of course, his statements were met with occasional scepticism. Some asked how those shapeless chunks of ice could ever have been the princess, but then a piece still vaguely resembling a hand was found, together with something else that could have been a braid, and that was that. It was easy to believe that the Queen, in a fit of unbalanced emotion, had done the unthinkable.
And then, the face was found.
It was a blunted image, the features blurred from the melting process. But it was still whole, and still recognisable – anyone who saw it would agree without the slightest doubt that it was the princess. The symbolism of the find was not lost on the court, which erupted in confusion and shocked whispers. It was, of course, unseemly to turn to a foreigner to take the lead – even treasonous, in the eyes of some traditionalists – but no one would step up to fill in the power vacuum.
Besides, the prince had proven to be responsible, managing the country with reasonable competence and patience, nudging people to believe the necessary. There was nobody left who was willing to brave the consequences should something go wrong in this delicate time.
Some suggested searching for the Snow Queen, but still-fresh memories of a roaring blizzard and biting cold proved sufficient discouragement. No one wanted to end up like the dead princess.
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Elsa woke one night to ripples of cold wind blowing within the palace walls. She felt the chill in a way she had never felt it before, and the breeze tugged gently but insistently at her, making a few strands of her hair come loose from its braid. Come, it whispered in her ear. Come to us.
She tried to resist, a shade of apprehension touching her heart. But the breeze, while cold, was still bearable and the voice did not seem malevolent. Not like – whose? A vague memory scratched at the surface of her mind but she dismissed it when the breeze intensified, swirling around her back, nudging at her. Ultimately, she relented, telling herself that she could defend herself better than most.
(And what was there to lose anyway?)
The wind blew and she followed as it led her down into the forest, going deep in, where the trees became densely packed such that the weak moonlight could only be seen faintly through their wizened, snow-covered branches. But she did not feel threatened. An unforced sense of peace had settled on her and she took each measured step without hesitation.
At last, she came to a large clearing where the moon could be seen clearly, illuminating the icy ground with its pale glow.
The breeze vanished. Elsa surveyed the clearing, gaze settling on a pond on the far end. She took her first step into the clearing slowly, warily, and almost started when she heard a slight rustle to her left.
She looked toward the direction of the noise, but saw no one. But when she looked back to the clearing, it was suddenly filled with figures dressed in white, so pale that they seemed to glow under the moonlight. They drifted around, paying no attention to her, speaking in voices that seemed to echo from some distant place. Upon closer scrutiny, Elsa realised that the figures were all female; the light of the moon seemed to grow brighter and colder in their presence, the trees taller and more forbidding.
Sadness rose in her chest unbidden, the emotion not yet alien to her heart. And yet, it was not her own sadness; rather, it was a sadness that enveloped the clearing like a faint mist, permeating its every corner. It could be seen in the faces of the women and the downward tilt of their heads, felt in the cold emptiness of the air in spite of their presence, heard in the soft whispers and rustles of their movement. But it was a sadness interlaced with a faint current of anger, and an inkling of who they were began to form.
Myth had spoken of them, the stories passed down from generation to generation, and not long ago, a writer had taken it upon himself to compile these hushed whispers into a written record. The tome had been in the library of Arendelle's palace, and Elsa, having turned to books to pass the time during her solitude, had read it more than once.
"Wilis," she breathed. It had never occurred to her that the myth was true – she had not disbelieved it per se, for after all she had spoken with trolls, but she had treated it as any other myth: half-believed, half-sceptical. The whispers and rustles paused for a moment at her murmur, then resumed like nothing had happened, and she knew then that she was right.
If that was the case, if these women were wilis, then according to the legend they could be very dangerous. But Elsa did not fear them. Her newfound serenity did not falter; they did not feel dangerous at that moment, and if the myths were to be trusted they would not harm her.
Slowly, carefully, she took a step into the clearing and prepared to enter the crowd. The breeze must have brought her here to meet them for a purpose, and there seemed to be nothing else she could do to find out what that was. As she came close enough to almost enter the crowd, a long white sleeve fluttered against her arm, and she felt that same mild chill as the wind before. The women did nothing to stop her advance, though she knew with an unshakeable certainty that they were well aware of her presence. Their lack of reaction and hostility emboldened her to take another step, and another, and soon she was weaving her way through the pale figures, unsure of what to expect.
The crowd thinned, and she realised that they were gradually parting and opening up a path for her to make her way to a lone white figure standing in front of the pond. She, unlike the rest, was looking directly at Elsa with piercing eyes. The tiara on her dark head and calm assuredness of her gaze proclaimed her the leader of this group.
Elsa mulled inwardly over the purpose for all this. But she continued walking until she was at a respectful distance from the woman, and bowed in the manner reserved for foreign heads of state in their home territory.
The woman, to her mild surprise, returned her greeting with an unexpectedly deep bow. "Queen Elsa," she said, in that same faraway voice that came from between her lips and yet seemed to echo from somewhere else. In spite of this, Elsa noticed that her voice carried a firm note of authority.
She raised her head to meet the dark gaze. The woman's face was unlined, with features that carried the sharpness of youth. And yet the eyes, inscrutable, enigmatic, spoke of great age. They bore into Elsa without judgement, merely absorbing the details. Elsa returned the stare unflinchingly, but something in the woman's eyes – something alien that she could not quite place – made her more uneasy than she cared to admit.
The sides of the woman's lips curled up slightly into a smile, and she spoke. The words echoed oddly in Elsa's ears, and if asked to reproduce them later she would not be able to remember the precise words used, but suddenly, she understood.
It was a whirl of images, of sensations and sounds, where crimes, heinous, heinous crimes were brought to light in this haunted clearing, and the faint undercurrent of anger became a surge of vivid, red-hot fury that burned and fed on past injustices. She heard bells, laughter, tears, pleas, and seemingly random images of churches and crowded streets flashed before her eyes. A barrage of emotions – from euphoria to despair, wistfulness to rage – tore through her mind, and she realised that what she heard was the echo of female voices; the images she saw were snatches of scenes centred around women. And all that was melded together by a collective wrath against –
Well she knew the legend didn't she? Everyone did.
She was staggering from the weight of it all, almost buckling but for her desire to retain some scrap of dignity in front of the Wili Queen –
And then the deluge stopped.
Somehow she'd managed to remain on her feet, though her knees suddenly felt much shakier than they had a while ago. A wary look around showed a ring of ice spikes impaled onto trees unfortunate enough to be within firing range. In spite of this, the woman before her was unperturbed, as were the rest of the wilis, though they had all stopped to watch with an unsettling stillness and intensity.
"So you understand?" The woman's voice was soft but clear.
Elsa met her gaze with a mixture of suspicion and residual anger – though the anger was not directed at her. "I do," she said, trying to infuse her voice with an undercurrent of authority. "But I will not fight battles which do not concern me – especially those which are impossible to win."
The wili's expression did not change, but something about the glitter of her eyes suggested a tinge of satisfaction. "I would expect nothing less, Queen Elsa. However, before you conclude thus, perhaps you could take a look at the members of our ranks." She inclined her head to the side, and an invisible grip tightened on Elsa's throat as she turned her gaze to the crowd.
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
"Anna?"
It was her. It could only be her. That red hair, those eyes that had once danced with vitality and mirth . . . they were unmistakeable. And yet –
Like a person in a trance, Elsa stumbled towards the pale figure. Her sister did not wear white. Her sister had never worn white. And those eyes were solemn, the skin too pale, the hair such a faded red, and she couldn't see those customary freckles. She stopped in front of the shade that resembled her sister and whispered again, "Anna?"
The girl smiled faintly and said, "It's me."
It was definitely her voice. Elsa reached out with trembling hands. "I can't believe this," she murmured. She did not quite know where to place her hands and hesitated, finally settling a hand lightly on Anna's cheek. It emanated that same not-unpleasant chill, but while it lacked the warmth of life, it was solid, it was there, it was real.
Anna stared at her, smiling more broadly and a shadow of her past spark flickered in her eyes. "Hey, Elsa."
"Y-you're alive?" It was a desperate hope, a final, futile hope.
Anna's gaze became infused with pity. Silently, she shook her head.
And having the confirmation of her hideous, awful crime right in front of her was the last straw. Forced apathy completely thrown aside, Elsa felt the guilt engulf her in a smothering wave and her throat constricted painfully. Her vision blurred. It was hard to speak, but she had to get the words out, had to attempt in some way or form to offer up penance, for doing this to her innocent, guiltless sister who had suffered so painfully, so needlessly. She'd only ever wanted to help.
The next few moments were filled with apology, with admissions of guilt, self-recrimination, and expressions of grief. The moments after were filled with a growing anger and sorrow, questions and answers, and then after came –
"So it was him."
Anna hesitated. "Yes," she said quietly, but with anger colouring her voice. "It was Hans."
Then her expression softened and she stared at her older sister imploringly. "I can't believe I couldn't warn you in time – I was so afraid he'd kill you too, and now. . . now you're in exile."
"Mostly self-imposed," admitted Elsa, shame blossoming in her chest. "I – I ran away. Like a coward. A selfish coward."
"But you can change that," a voice cut in smoothly. Elsa turned to face the queen, who had hitherto kept her distance. "Queen Elsa, I need hardly tell you this, but I feel it appropriate for the current situation: it is hardly controversial to say that a monarch must place duty above self, though to unnecessarily whittle oneself down is, of course," and here her lips curved upwards in a smile, "counterproductive."
A flush rose to Elsa's cheeks. "I know that," she said, the words coming out a little more sharply than intended. "I've known for a long time."
The woman's eyebrows rose. "And yet, here we are."
There was a long, pregnant pause.
Elsa drew herself up to her full height. "What business is my kingdom to you?" she asked coldly. "You rule here in the shades of trees, far removed from Arendelle and any surrounding settlements. You know nothing of its complexities."
The woman was unfazed by her confrontational tone. "You speak as if you were still queen," she replied with a mocking lilt. "Do you rule from your palace of ice, Your Majesty? But no – " she cut across an outraged protest from Elsa, "you do not know, do you? That the foreign prince is ruling almost in your stead. Which brings me to the subject of the prince in question."
The temperature in the clearing seemed to plunge, as Elsa's eyes burned into the Wili Queen's pale face.
The wili gestured with an elegant arm. "You've seen what has become of your sister. You know who the perpetrator is. In spite of what you might think, your powers are part of what makes you strong, Queen Elsa."
A hungry look flashed across her face.
A sense of foreboding started to cloud Elsa's mind, though her voice remained steady. "You would have me commit murder?" she demanded, allowing an appropriate amount of moral outrage to colour her voice.
The moonlight illuminated the upward, almost arrogant tilt of the woman's chin. "I would say that it is a duty you owe your kingdom, Queen Elsa, but it would be a falsehood if I were to say it was my primary argument. You know what we are. You know what our curse is, a curse that we bear not as the result of our own actions – but as that of others'."
Elsa remained silent, though her eyes were still fixed coldly on the woman before her.
"You are strong," said the woman, "strong with your powers, and strong without. Your ice powers might not affect us – but they will affect him. Ask your sister how she died," she continued quietly, her gaze intense. "Now she labours under an undeserved curse for eternity."
"Melodramatically put, but true," quipped Anna, though her expression was sombre.
Elsa turned to her sister slowly and gazed at her for a long while. Then she turned back to the Wili Queen with a rigid jaw. The entire clearing was now blanketed in silence, with every gaze fixed on her.
A quick glance around told her that one of the trees had suffered more grievously from her onslaught than the others. Elsa stared at it for a long while, her forehead creased in thought, before taking a long, deep breath, and making a hurling motion with her arm. The ice grew to cover the entire tree, and all its branches were ripped violently out of the trunk with sickening cracks. Another sharp gesture severed the trunk from its roots, and a small blizzard pushed it such that it fell backwards, out of the clearing. Exhilaration rushed through her veins, as she looked at the fallen remains of the tree.
She cleared her throat.
"Give me time," she said, turning back swiftly and staring into the woman's ancient, dark gaze. "I will need to formulate my plans."
Smiling very slightly, the Wili Queen inclined her head.
Chapter Text
I have no spur/ To prick the sides of my intent, but only/ Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,/ And falls on th'other – Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 7
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A few weeks earlier
Amidst the mess and water damage caused by melted ice, the limp, rotting carrot was found on one of the palace’s more severely blighted corridors and tossed into the rubbish pile without a second glance.
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Present
Hans carefully laid the small wreath against Anna’s grave and stepped back, bowing his head slightly. The orange-pink hues of the setting sun bathed the marble in a myriad of warm colours, turning it into an appropriately picturesque sight – just as he was the picture-perfect image of the grieving lover, with his slightly drooping shoulders and sombre demeanour.
Appearances had to be maintained, after all.
This had become a weekly ritual, where he would make his way alone to the graveyard of the Arendellian Royal Family and pay his respects. Nearby stood the tombstones of Anna’s parents – empty graves, just like the one for their daughter. If he’d stuck to the original plan, there would be another stone standing in this place. A complete set, he mused.
The image of Elsa’s wide, devastated eyes flashed across his mind, and a small frown creased his forehead.
But he couldn’t have committed regicide so openly, after all. The halting of the snowstorm, while welcome, had had the unfortunate side effect of exposing him to prying eyes and potentially sticky questioning. Much better to let the Queen go. It was cleaner, easier.
And yet –
A tendril of disquiet scratched in a corner of his mind, an unease that he had been unable to completely dismiss. Perhaps he would have to deal with the elder sister in due course. A little more quietly, of course, and such that no suspicion would attach to his name.
He was already having trouble dealing with the Council – an unimaginative group of bureaucrats at best, but still duly suspicious of a foreigner. The only barriers keeping them from open rebellion was a combination of Anna’s orders to appoint him regent, a reluctance to stick their necks out and fear of the alternative. He knew that they were waiting for him to make a fatal mistake, but first – he had to solve the country’s more pressing problems.
As long as they needed their scapegoat, he was safe.
Hans glanced up. The sky was getting dark and he had paid his dues for the week. He strode briskly to his horse and swung himself up – an autumnal chill was starting to set in and he’d never liked the cold. Repressing a slight shiver, he rode off to the castle without looking back.
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. . .You won’t get away with this. . .this. . .this. . .
Watch as he turns his back on you, girl – remember this moment. Remember how he used you and lied to you and betrayed you, and then walked away with his prize in his hands and a spring in his step. Will you let him go this easily? Will you allow him to gloat over his ill-gotten gains as your kingdom falls under foreign control? You can still fight back – fight back and win. You can still set things in motion, though you won’t be the one to finish him off. You can. You can.
. . .Oh. . .
. . .I already have .
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Under a thin crescent moon, Elsa knelt by the tombstone, eyes tracing the letters of a name. No words passed her lips; none were needed. Her shoulders shook slightly as she allowed a flood of memories to sweep over her – such a delight to finally feel, such a pleasure in itself, even if soul-crushing grief was hardly comforting.
She’d struggled to keep her anger in check whilst staring at the distant figure of the Southern Isles prince as he’d paid his false respects. Looking down at the wreath he’d left behind, that same anger threatened to overwhelm her. Frost started to creep into the ground in front of her; with an effort she forced herself to think of her sister’s face.
Anna, she thought savagely, at least deserved flowers from someone who was sincere.
Elsa held out a hand and concentrated, drawing on cherished memories and savouring the rush that came with the process of creation. A bluish-white glow coalesced in her palm and became solid; intricately carved ice flowers took shape.
Staring down at her handiwork, Elsa let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. A crocus, a tea rose and a violet lay in her palm, the faint light of the moon glinting off their petals and intertwined stems. Cheerfulness, remembrance, and a promise of devotion. Such drivel when seen in a crusty tome, but it seemed appropriate for the current situation.
Dimly, she wondered why it was such a release to feel at this moment – the anger she had felt earlier had caused her control over her powers to slip. But now –
She ran her fingers gently down the cold marble.
Surely it couldn’t be that simple, that – that clichéd? Creating the delicate icy blooms in her hand had been well within her capabilities, had practically been as challenging as singing a slightly tricky tune. And if she recalled correctly, the snowstorm had stopped when she’d found out about Anna’s death.
You must learn to control it. Fear will be your enemy. But there was more to that, wasn’t there? Fear was undoubtedly a negative force in this, but what was the active positive force? Something had pushed her to end the winter, and it wasn’t just a mastery of her emotions – it had required something more raw, more primal –
Click. The pieces started to fit together in her mind with beautiful clarity.
A sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff escaped her lips. “I see,” she said to no one in particular. Her shoulders shook slightly.
With her free hand, she scraped at the dirt at the side of the tombstone. It would be unwise to leave her offerings out in the open; best keep a low profile while she finalised her plans. A strange urge to laugh threatened to surface – now that she’d had that nagging problem figured out, things would be much easier. Much easier.
She carefully placed the ice flowers in the little hole. As she started to pile the soil back in, her thoughts turned back to the pertinent issue at hand, with the little details falling into place. It would all form an exquisitely tidy whole in the end, she told herself. And it was to be for Arendelle, for the memory of her sister and for the sake of a bond that death would not sever.
It was for a fluttering shade, a wisp of memory and a glittering kingdom on the coast.
A glittering kingdom. . .
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“It will be done six days from now. Maybe thirteen.”
“We look forward to it.”
“Good luck, Elsa.”
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Another week as Regent, another week of wrangling. Hans sighed and massaged his temples as he stared at the mass of paperwork before him. Ruling a country was undoubtedly harder than he’d expected, though he’d known it would take work – far more so in a country beset with food shortages and crop failure. It was fortunate that many of Arendelle's ships had not been docked at the harbour at the time of the Great Freeze; most of the ships present had suffered significant damage that required copious amounts of time and money to repair. Some had been unsalvageable.
The people didn’t seem inclined to revolt yet, though; Arendelle’s leaders had had the foresight to set aside a massive store of dried foodstuffs and seeds in an underground area which had become accessible after the ice melted. It was sufficient to keep the food shortage at still-manageable levels, and at least people weren’t starving outright. But it would be a lie to say that they were happy with the food rationing programme.
That morning, as he’d stared into the mirror, he’d seen a thinner, haggard face looking back at him, with a slight hollowness to the eyes and dark smudges beneath them. It was tiring enough, governing a country which he had little first-hand knowledge about; it was far more tiring having to work with a Council that openly despised him. The crown loyalists were more stubborn than he’d expected.
But then, no one had ever said that a struggle for significance would be easy.
He glanced out of the window; it was time for the weekly pilgrimage. The weather was good today, with no strong winds and few clouds in the sky. He needed a walk, anyway – so no need for the horse.
Roughly shoving the document forward on his desk, he suppressed a yawn and stood up; perhaps it was the deception that was also getting to him. Or perhaps not. He didn’t care enough to think deeper on it.
At least the trips to Anna's grave gave him a purportedly legitimate reason to take a break.
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The last thing he remembered at the graveyard was the sound of something rushing towards him, before a hard and very cold object crashed into the back of his head.
Chapter Text
His head throbbed. Gingerly opening his eyes a crack, Hans could just about make out a gleaming ceiling. The soreness in his body and his stiff back muscles ensured that his transition to consciousness was a highly unpleasant process.
And it didn't help that he was freezing.
Realisation hit him with the force of a rampaging reindeer. With an inexorable rush, the graveyard memory came flooding back into his mind, worsening the headache that was already raging behind his eyes.
He shut his eyes again. This was a catastrophe.
"Pretending to be asleep won't help your situation, you know."
That voice. He would know that voice anywhere. How often had he replayed it on sleepless nights, as he'd tossed and turned on his bed, haunted by an unease that refused to leave him well alone? He'd never been a big believer in divine retribution, but as he'd reassured himself over and over again, this wasn't anything unworldly, it was just an issue of politics. It had been unwise to spare her life, because that was one loose end left untied, not because of – pity.
(In his mind's eye, the image of her eyes, large and frightened and pleading, refused to go away.)
She was pacing around, he thought, listening to the sound of her footsteps. He wondered why she hadn't done him in yet, why not finish the job she'd clearly set out to do, instead of waiting around and feeling the crunch of snow under her feet –
This wasn't her palace.
Hans' eyes shot open and with a grunt, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The dizzying effect this caused almost made him want to sprawl back down on the ground, but he suppressed it with characteristic ruthlessness. Squinting slightly through bloodshot eyes, he saw that she'd put him in a marvellously intricate and sturdy ice cage. A cage! Shaking aside that indignity, he peered out between the bars and managed to register a forest clearing through the darkness.
A pit started to form in his stomach.
Summoning up what he could of his bravado, he said, "A cage, Your Majesty? Surely there are better ways to treat a guest, especially an unwilling one." Inwardly, he winced at the hoarseness of his voice.
Elsa had her back to him. Without turning around, she replied coldly, "The alternative was binding you to the ground with ice, which would have cost you your limbs."
"How very considerate of you," said Hans smoothly. "How long was I out?"
Her step faltered a little, but she resumed her pacing, a slight tension in her shoulders. "About five hours." Then she turned around to face him, her eyes steely. "You stirred about three hours ago, so I – remedied that. Don't worry, you haven't been exposed to the elements for too long."
He allowed a sneer to curl his lip. "Very kind of you to care about my wellbeing, I'm – "
"Don't flatter yourself," she interrupted, stepping closer to his cage. "I need you whole and reasonably capable of movement."
He looked up at her, a shadowy silhouette against the faint moonlight. Her voice was stripped of the fear he remembered, and her face stony, but something about her bearing suggested a tinge of nervousness. And it was unusually cold, even for this area and time of night.
"That's not me."
He blinked. "What?"
Her lovely, heart-shaped face could have been a mask, half-obscured with shadow as it was. "The cold. It's not from me."
What on earth was she planning? Who else was involved? A different kind of fear started to take hold of him, but he forced himself to sound indifferent. "That's good to know."
Elsa frowned distantly, though a sardonic note entered her voice when she spoke. "You should know, then, that that is an ominous sign, and if you acquiesce to what I'm going to ask of you in the next fifteen minutes, then perhaps you could be saved from what's coming."
"Saved from what's coming?" He didn't bother to hide his scorn. "Melodrama ill-befits you, Your Majesty, and generic, storybook threats are hardly the stuff of nightmares. You'll have to try harder than that."
She'd suppressed a wince at his derisive use of her title, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't enough to hide the sinking feeling that he was in very, very deep trouble, though. If he could just continue needling her, pressing her buttons, provoking her enough to get her to reveal her plan –
"You forget, Prince Hans," said Elsa quietly, interrupting his train of thought, "that you are at my mercy now. If you think that I am making empty threats – " her fingers flexed and an ice spike exploded up from right beside his hand, " – think again."
He hadn't managed to suppress that flinch.
Sending her a poisonous look, he said contemptuously, "What do you want?"
Elsa eyed him with an inscrutable expression, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. Clasping them lightly between her fingers, she said, "I want you to write down a full confession of your crimes, including how you deliberately left Anna to freeze, and were about to commit regicide for the purpose of extending your Regency, and eventually. . . perhaps ascending to the throne." She paused for a while and continued softly, "And take care – I will know if you are lying."
Hans stared at her in disbelief, fighting down the panic that was slowly but surely growing in his chest. "Surely you don't think I would ever accede to such a lunatic demand?" he said, draping his voice with veils of righteous indignation. "What makes you think I killed Anna? You were the one who cursed her to freeze, you were the one who abandoned your throne and your people. All I did was carry out my duties as I saw fit."
The fingers on her free hand were curled like talons and flexing slightly, he noted with a flash of vindictiveness. But her voice, when she spoke, was perfectly even. "It is true that I abandoned my position at a time when my people needed leadership, yes," she admitted. "But it is also true that you wilfully left Anna – second in line to the throne – to die. And you were careless enough to confess everything to her. For a scheming prince, you're not very clever, are you Hans? One would expect better from the youngest of thirteen sons."
The ache in his jaw reminded him that he was clenching it with unconscious ferocity; how did she know? How could she know? Unless – unless –
Not very clever for a scheming prince. . . How dared she? What did she know about politics, she who was so coddled and spineless that she'd fled at the first sign of trouble –
He tamped down on his anger with an effort.
"You have no way of knowing my role in Anna's death," he said flatly. "And as for your other point – you're hardly in the position to comment. All you're doing is putting words in my mouth."
"Oh?" she said in a voice so soft and deadly that for a moment she was barely recognisable as the uncertain young woman from the coronation. "Am I really? You might keep an impressive poker face, Prince Hans, but the tension in your body gives you away. You know I'm right."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said coldly.
She stared at him in silence for a long while, before scoffing and tucking the paper and pen back in the pocket of her trousers. Her attire was made of the same delicate material as her dress had been, he noted dispassionately, but with rather a bit less shimmer.
"I thought you'd say something along those lines," she said. "Very well then."
And she turned on her heel and left him sitting in his ice prison.
.
.
The moment her back was to him, Elsa let her face contort into a grimace. It had been difficult to keep up that façade of intimidation – had in fact taken all her training from childhood to stop herself from unleashing her anger on him or simply cowering in shame. A swift glance to the side told her that ice had creeped onto the trunks of several trees; with a muffled curse, she reversed it.
Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she reminded herself that everything was going according to plan. Let him wonder what's coming, she thought with the savagery of feeling that came with long repression. Let him wallow in his discomfort. He deserves no better.
Unbidden, her thoughts wandered back to their previous confrontation. Anna had repeated his entire confession to her, his entire plan. It seemed obvious that committing regicide so openly was unwise in the extreme, but still – she wondered. One could argue that it had been a tactical blunder to allow her escape.
She heard him moving in his cage, the pop of stiff joints accompanying the rustling of his clothing. He was probably trying to keep warm, she thought bitterly. No matter – fear and panic would do so in due course. The sentiment didn't make her any happier – far from it, really – but her resolve hardened.
Her mind made up, she turned and strode back to him. "Have you ever heard of the wilis, Prince Hans?" she said, maintaining a carefully impassive expression.
He met her gaze from behind the ice bars, an inscrutable look in his eyes. But he did not reply.
Be that way then, she snarled mentally. So she ploughed on.
"In life, they were women, betrayed by the men they loved, and who died before their wedding day. For some of them, the grief and shock triggered a pre-existing condition, killing them. For others, however. . ." Elsa trailed off, wondering how to best phrase it.
"Betrayal doesn't just entail the revelation that affection never existed," she said finally. "For some, they were – disposed of. Or. . . they were left to die."
A beat.
She watched his face carefully for signs of guilt, but found only an immovable impassiveness. Fighting down a well of savage irritation, she continued, "And as if the crimes committed against them were lacking in their severity, in death they are cursed. Cursed to wander the certain woodland areas for eternity, cursed to never rest in peace. The wilis rise between midnight and dawn, wreaking their vengeance upon any man unfortunate enough to cross their paths – for this they are bound to the physical confines of the world forever. Rather a cruel set of circumstances, is it not?" It was difficult to hold his gaze as she finished her monologue – her nerves felt as a thin, melting sheet of ice right before it cracked – but tempting as it was to look away, weakness was not an option. If not for her own pride, then for Anna's memory.
A silence followed immediately after her words. Then a laugh, hard and mocking, ripped through the air like a knife through gossamer.
"Surely you're joking," said Hans, not bothering to conceal his sneer. "I know they said that ice powers were impossible, but this – I understand that you're trying to intimidate me into doing what you want, but I would suggest, Snow Queen, that you try something that doesn't sound like it came out of a child's far-fetched book of tales."
It was hard for Elsa not to show her disdain. Eyeing him coldly, she shot back, "And yet, you thought it entirely within the realms of possibility that taking over Arendelle would only require some audacity and the over-application of limited charisma." It was hard not to feel a tinge of satisfaction at how his eyes narrowed slightly. "I hardly think your idea of far-fetched is reliability epitomised. Tell me, Hans: how do my counsellors view your encroachment on Arendellian sovereignty?"
His sneer deepened, though it was now distorted with a faint undercurrent of real anger. "That's beside the point."
A humourless smile curled her lip. "Make of it what you will, then," she said. "But I'm offering you your last chance. Will you write out your confession or not? If you don't, I can promise that you will most emphatically regret what follows."
It took effort to maintain a hard stare. She hoped he wouldn't call out her bluff.
He gave her a thoroughly unimpressed stare. "I. Admit. Nothing," he bit out.
Stupid boy.
Lifting her chin slightly, she stared down at him and matched his haughty look with one of her own. "If you say so, then." Reaching into one of her pockets, she slowly and very deliberately withdrew the pocket watch she'd stolen off his unconscious body. She ignored his suddenly scorching gaze with an apparently superb ease as she flipped it open and checked the time.
"You have less than thirty seconds, provided this watch is accurate."
"Of course it is," he snapped, sounding vaguely offended. "And you can't prove anything."
The tinge of unease in his voice hadn't been there before. The layers of arrogance were still present, but now they were tainted with something that was very much like disquiet.
"Ten. . . nine. . . eight. . ."
"Have you lost your mind? These fear tactics wouldn't scare a six-year-old."
". . . four. . . three. . ."
"No –"
". . .two. . . one."
In her mind, she thought she could hear a distant bong.
Bong.
Bong.
Bong.
Twelve times it chimed in her head. Her lips curved into a grim smile.
"This isn't a generic storybook threat, Hans."
.
.
The strange, almost pitying look Elsa was giving him made Hans want to lunge forward and do something – anything – to wipe it off her face. Dimly, he registered that his fists were clenched at his sides, but more unsettlingly, as Elsa had counted down the time, he had felt his neck prickle at the picking up of a faint chilly breeze.
Deep down, an ancient primal fear was starting to take hold; the social conditioning that had taught him to override certain instincts from a young age was ceding ground to the distant memory of old terrors, unthinking fears, and dreams from the deepest, darkest parts of the night.
Behind Elsa, he thought he saw a flash of movement.
His eyes widened.
If possible, it now felt even colder than before. It was fortunate that he'd thought to wear his thicker coat in anticipation of the evening walk back to the palace. Perhaps his actions had already been doom-laden, he thought in a flash of unchecked hysteria, ignoring the melodramatic quality of the sentiment. Maybe he'd always known that it would come to –
"Do you know?"
The voice made him stiffen. It had come from behind his left shoulder and a thousand miles away. It had been an intimate murmur and a distant echo. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Elsa's now-unreadable expression, he fought to maintain a neutral – if rigid – look on his face.
"Do you know what it's like? Freezing to death from within?" A dagger-sharp chill brushed against the back of his head.
All his fight or flight instincts were screaming at him to run, run, run – but he forced himself to remain motionless. Elsa's face hardened, and she turned and swept away in the opposite direction.
A wave of frantic fear overrode all thoughts of dignity. "Where are you going?" he suddenly blurted out at her retreating back. "What have you done?"
She ignored him, walking right to the edge of the clearing and disappearing into the trees.
"You bitch," he said, his voice taking on a slightly hysterical edge. "Come back right now, you ice witch! Where the hell are you going?"
There was a rustling of branches, and then nothing.
He scrambled to his feet, panting. "Where are you, Elsa?" he growled with a determined truculence, all poise forgotten. "Where are you hiding?!" I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone here.
"Let's see," the voice mused, as if its owner hadn't heard him. "Freezing to death isn't quite the same as being set on fire – but do you know, it does have similarities to. . . burning."
And then his shoulder felt like an ice-cold brand was being pushed onto his bare skin. He couldn't help the yelp; before he could stop himself, he whirled around to confront the owner of that too-familiar voice.
And saw that there was no one there.
Trying not to let his teeth chatter too obviously, he turned back warily, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he squinted at the clearing and the murky shadows of trees. It should be easy to see Elsa if she was anywhere near the edge, he reasoned – her clothes weren't made for camouflage. Then again, it wasn't exactly a well-lit street –
His spine tingled.
"Perhaps you could try to imagine your heart filling slowly with ice-cold water and overflowing into the rest of your torso. Imagine that paralysing chill spreading to every last corner of your body, every last appendage. Numbing doesn't quite capture it, but it isn't really painful." The voice continued, as casually as a conversation about the weather. This time, it seemed to come from right where his blind spot was. "And let me tell you, Hans. . .
". . .It's one of the worst feelings you'll ever have."
And then she was in front of him.
"So cold that it burns," Anna said distantly, staring at his chest. "So cold. . . And yet, the only one with a frozen heart here is you."
Hans gaped at her, backing away. "But-but, you're dead," he stammered. He flinched as he felt his back hit the bars of his cell.
This seemed to break her reverie. Anna lifted her gaze to meet his, unimpressed. "Full marks for observation skills," she said flatly. "And me being dead is why you're the one with the frozen heart. Mine has done its job, so now it's gone."
He stared at her, trying in his panicked state to do some very quick thinking. He hadn't expected Anna to come back as a spirit (obviously); she could recall all the awful things he had done to her, and her sister was here, aware of all his crimes, and perfectly capable of inflicting bodily damage on him, and – oh.
He was painfully aware of the solid barrier surrounding him, preventing his escape.
"And that was very rude of you, to call Elsa names," Anna said, ignoring his silence. "Especially since you really don't have the moral high ground."
In spite of himself, he couldn't help a flare of irritation and a feeling he refused to think of as guilt. To cover his momentary lapse (and continued anxiety), he bit out, "Being dead hasn't made you any less tiresome."
A wide, unsettling smile stretched across her too-pale face. "Being dead frees me from any obligation to not be tiresome," she corrected, almost smugly. "I can talk all I want and you can't do anything about it."
The part of his mind that wasn't racing at a thousand miles an hour briefly noted the humour in the situation. But that was swiftly subsumed by an irrational anger; he channelled it into his voice, snapping, "Where has she gone?"
Anna's smug expression flickered. "She's taking care of things that I wasn't able to," she said with some attempt at levity, though her eyes were now sober. "Don't worry, you're not being neglected."
Hans snorted. It seemed the only sensible thing to do.
Then he felt a burning sensation in his hands and realised that his fingers were curled tightly around two ice-cold bars; with a grimace, he peeled them away, not relishing the unpleasant numb-pain that resulted.
A smirk flitted across Anna's face, before she glanced over his shoulder, nodded mysteriously, and disappeared.
The knot in his stomach tightening, he turned slowly to face Elsa.
.
.
The stiffness in his expression failed to conceal the signs of fear. Elsa stood very still, her mouth set in a determined line as she gathered her wits about her. With a sharp downward gesture, the bars around Hans dissolved into mist, and in spite of herself, she could not help the twinge of revulsion at what she was about to do.
On the back of her right shoulder, she could feel the familiar, soft flutter against her thin sleeve. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, steeling herself.
This is bigger than you. More important than you. Remember this man's crimes.
Settling her face into a cool mask, she opened her eyes again.
It was time.
Nobodystormcrow on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Aug 2017 01:51PM UTC
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Thornapple on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Aug 2017 07:14PM UTC
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